Yesterday I heard the hunters deep in the forest, a shot , a thud, a rebel yell. In the wild there is a dead fawn. Its grieving Doe bedded nearby her eyes a crust of grief. We buried her baby under a tall pine tree, wound a broken bough with garlands of wildflowers.
Last night in a dream they came. The stench of their scorn filled the air. Running until my bare feet bled, they drew back their swords and pierced my heart, buried me beneath the skins of dead animals.
This morning a sparrow struck my window, its mark formed a teardrop on the pane. It’s grave is in the shade of the Hydrangea.
The garden is in full bloom, peonies open wide and fruit spurs shoot forth from the apple tree. At the surface the earth thrives but deep in shadows the hunters prey, life as insignificant as the tiny sparrow.